by George Baxt
She snorted. “Oh, come now. I never heard their names until yesterday. Where would I have met either of them?”
“Somewhere in the past,” he added dryly, “assuming you have a past.”
“I’m more concerned at the moment with the future. What are we going to do in Lingate?”
Hitchcock, to himself, admitted defeat. There was no use trying to spar with the woman. The enigma was impenetrable. “We’re going to the circus.” Now he looked at her, and there was no expression of childish delight on her face. “I take it you don’t like circuses.”
“I don’t like the way you have turned against me. I thought we were friends. We made a bargain. I’m helping you in return for a story and now you tell me nothing and I feel lost and I don’t like it.”
“You’re not lost, you’re on the road to Lingate.”
“Spare me your whimsy, Mr. Hitchcock; what we are involved in is serious business. Don’t you realize we too might be targets for the murderer? Well, don’t you?” He said nothing. “What happened to Madeleine Lockwood to make her feel faint at the circus yesterday?” He said nothing. “Didn’t she tell you? Didn’t she tell you anything? Why else is she in Regner’s scenario?”
Hitchcock sighed. He decided to placate her somewhat. It might relieve the nagging. “An old gypsy woman at the circus told Miss Lockwood she didn’t have long to live.”
“Ha! You don’t have to look in her palm to tell her that! You just look at her and you know any day now she’ll be dust!”
“How do you know she looked in her palm and not in a crystal ball?”
‘How do you mean, how do I know? I don’t know at all! I said looked in her palm because it’s the first thing I thought of. What else did she tell you?”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d raised my voice.”
“She told me their knife thrower had gone missing.”
“Knife thrower! Ah! I see! You think he was the man in the basement of the church.”
“Oh, indubitably.”
“Did Miss Lockwood think this too?”
“Well, she didn’t disagree.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“The good old days.”
“What good old days?”
“When spying was an honorable profession.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“No, I was just putting a little irony in the fire. Actually, I’m beginning to realize a subtle point in which I’ve failed in my spy films.”
“Oh, yes? And what is that?”
“My spies were all suave and ladies and gentlemen. No such thing. Spies are very foolish people.”
“That’s what you think. Shame on you. Look how clever they’re being with you.”
“That’s because it’s been written for them. They’re playing parts like my actors. No, spies are the failures of the species. They turn to the profession of betrayal because they’re totally incapable of gainful recognition. Look at foolish Miss Lockwood. She was obviously a mess as a professional singer and was probably a very woeful child. So she was easily seduced by the glamour of espionage—”
“And the financial gain,” interposed Nancy.
“Hers is from the lover, my dear, and not gained by professional acumen.”
“And what about this lover? Who was he?”
“I don’t know.” It was so easy to lie to her, and Hitchcock reveled in the deception. What an improvement his viewpoint of spies and spying would be in The Lady Vanishes, he thought with satisfaction. Alma would be so pleased. Alma. He must get to a telephone, reach Jennings. He had to know what progress there was in the search for Alma. Maybe she’d been found; the thought consoled him a bit. Maybe all was well. Maybe, a word he usually loathed and rarely used.
Sir Arthur Willing’s man at the wheel of the black sedan felt relieved. When they’d pulled into the petrol station, the sudden swerve had taken him unawares and he cursed himself for that. When alone on an assignment his mind tended to wander, and that was bad, but no professional operator is perfect, that’s why so many are apprehended. Surprised by the sudden swerve, he was forced to continue driving, leaving them behind him, but with luck, he found a shoulder in the road where he could park and ponder his road map until they appeared again. For a moment, he dwelt with a sinking feeling on the thought they might have reversed and gone back and he lost them. When after five minutes they hadn’t appeared, he entertained the option of turning back in search of them. But the gods were good. Nancy and Hitchcock drove past, and in the brief glimpse he caught of them over the rim of the road map which he had positioned to mask his face, he saw what looked like a coolness between them.
That bitch. That loathsome bitch. He put the car into gear and resumed the pursuit. How he loathed Nancy Adair.
He hummed, La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
Fourteen
At lunch, which they frequently took together, Basil Cole directed his attention from his shepherd’s pie to Nigel Pack, who was picking with disinterest at a soggy salad. “I say, Nigel, is there something troubling you?”
“Hmmm? What? Oh, troubling me? No more than usual. What took place at your confrontation with the old man?” Then he added quickly, “Of course, if it was a private matter…”
“Well, actually”—he wished there were less slimy grease oozing out of his food—”we discussed tidiness.” He elucidated for Nigel, who looked as though he thought he was being subjected to a leg pull, and when his discourse was over, Nigel agreed with him about the proliferation of loose ends.
“He let anything drop that I should know about?”
“Like what?”
“Like about this case. Hitchcock.”
“Oh, well, actually, his trail’s been picked up. Forgive me, old chap, meant to tell you earlier, but it slipped my mind. He and the girl were in Medwin at the Lockwood person’s place. Nigel?”
“Yes?” Nigel was thinking his ham didn’t look like ham. He wondered if it wasn’t silverside. He pushed the sliver of meat to one side on his plate and carefully sectioned a slice of tomato.
“Have we a Herbert in the firm?”
“Herbert who?”
“Just Herbert.”
“First name or last name?”
“Don’t know. I can’t recall any Herbert.”
“Maybe he’s a new recruit. Why do you ask?”
“Herbert is tailing Hitchcock and the girl.”
“Why didn’t you ask the old man?”
“I did. And old sly puss said apologetically that that too was to remain an untidy loose end.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to leave it there, won’t we?”
“How are things at home?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t mentioned Violet lately. “
“There are times when Violet is unmentionable.”
“I see; it’s like that, is it?”
“It’s like nothing, actually.” He pushed his plate away and took a sip of his coffee. “Foul food, this. Why do we eat in pubs? Why don’t we go to a decent restaurant occasionally?”
“It’s too expensive, that’s why. Oh, well, someday, when our ships come in.”
“That depends on who’s navigating. Want some cake? I feel like some ginger cake.”
“No, thanks. You go ahead.” Nigel got up and Basil watched him as he swivel-hipped his way through the luncheon crush to the food display. There are times when Violet is unmentionable. Old sly puss indeed. Very astute old sly puss. That’s why he’s in charge and we aren’t.
Alma hadn’t eaten much lunch, and Brunhilde commented as she removed the folding table which she had placed earlier in front of Alma in the drawing room, “Cook favors people who belong to the Clean Plate Club.”
So there’s a cook, thought Alma. That meant there were three she knew of on the premises now that Blinky was gone. It was nice to know that the man with
the tic had the opportunity every so often to blow his own horn. “I don’t have much appetite,” said Alma. “My apologies to the cook.”
“I’m the cook.”
So there were still only two on the premises, Brunhilde and Dempsey. “Oh. Well, then, my apologies. I say, are there any newspapers about?”
“There’s nothing about you in them.”
“I was thinking of my husband.”
“Nothing about him either.”
Strange, thought Alma; how very strange.
Brunhilde said, “There’s a wireless in that wall panel near the bar, if you want to listen to it. The wall panel slides back. Just give it a nudge.”
“Thank you.” When Brunhilde had left, Alma crossed to the wall panel, nudged it, and the wireless materialized. She switched it on and came in at the end of the news break. A symphonic concert was announced, and Alma sat in a chair and tried to enjoy it, but her mind was elsewhere. She was back in Munich when they were shooting The Pleasure Garden. She was seeing Rudolf Wagner at the piano, and she was standing over him as he played his haunting little melody. Her face screwed up, she was trying to remember something, and then it came to her: the man with the disfigured face suddenly appearing from behind the scenery and then as suddenly disappearing again. The face. The murder. The melody. She switched off the wireless and crossed to the piano.
Do mi fa sol… sol fa sol.
She picked out the tune with her index finger. She didn’t hear Brunhilde returning.
La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
“Pretty little tune, that,” said Brunhilde, startling Alma, who turned and saw the big woman wielding a carpet sweeper.
“Yes, it is pretty. Do you know it?”
“Never heard it before in my life,” was the reply Alma got, and Alma was thinking, Brunhilde, you lie.
Peter Dowerty stood at the opposite side of Jennings’ desk, staring down at his superior, who was speaking on the phone to Sir Arthur Willing. He said an occasional “I see” or “That’s good” or sometimes a noncomittal “Urn,” and then thanked Sir Arthur and hung up. Jennings told Dowerty, “They’re at the circus, Hitchcock and the woman.” He sat back in his swivel chair. “A village named Lingate.”
“Don’t know it, sir.”
“Didn’t expect you would. What’s your problem? You look a bit anxious.”
“It’s Angus McKellin’s da. He’s been on to me from Glasgow. He wants Angus shipped home right away.”
“I’ve ordered the autopsy. It’s a matter of form.”
I told his father there’d have to be an autopsy and he told me where to shove it.”
“Sounds as if we could use the old boy here.”
“He didn’t have kind words for us, Mr. Jennings.”
“So few people do, Dowerty, so few people do.” He sighed and then said, “You can make arrangements to ship the body. It’ll be ready to travel by around five o’clock or so.”
It’ll be ready to travel, thought Dowerty as he left the office, ready to travel. He thought of his mother when he told her he was intending to join the force and remembered her admonishing words, “I don’t want you coming home in a pine box. If you’re planning on coming home in a pine box, don’t come home at all. Why can’t you be a ribbon clerk like your brother Percy?” Because it’s seeing Percy as a ribbon clerk that drove me to a more masculine pursuit, that’s why, Mum. He wondered if Jennings would object to his passing the hat to raise the money for a wreath for Angus McKellin.
Before reaching the circus, Hitch phoned Jennings and detailed his progress. He learned the false Lemuel Peach had been knifed to death. Poetic justice, thought Hitchcock. “Be careful, be very careful,” warned Jennings. Hitchcock assured him he would, hung up, and rejoined Nancy Adair. Almost immediately, they found the circus in a meadow at the other end of Lingate. There was to be one performance only, and that wasn’t due to start for another hour, but people were beginning to arrive. To Hitchcock, the one-ring tent looked somewhat shaky, and the adjoining tent that housed the freaks looked even shakier. There was a line of kiosks and wagons offering games and refreshments, and spielers were barking their wares. For some strange reason, the small circus orchestra, drum, piano, pipe organ, two trumpets, and a saxophone player, were all in blackface, like members of a minstrel show. They were placed on a platform at the entrance to the main tent and would move inside just before the performance began. They weren’t very good, but they were loud and were playing the circus staple, “The March of The Gladiators.”
“Does this bring back your childhood?” Hitchcock asked Nancy, assuming there was a childhood to bring back, whether she wanted it retrieved or not.
“I never went to the circus,” said Nancy, her nose wrinkling with distaste at the odor coming from the animal compound. “What a terrible smell. Where are we going?”
“I thought I’d have my fortune told.” He was pointing to a sign over a tepee that read,
MADAME LAVINIA.
FORTUNES TOLDSIXPENCE.
“And what am I to do while you’re having your fortune told?”
“You’re a reporter, my dear. Snoop around and find a story. Look at the handsome bloke over there in the costume of an American Indian. Don’t you think he’s a sight for squaw eyes?”
Herbert, the man tailing Hitchcock and Nancy Adair, parked the black sedan so that it couldn’t be blocked by another vehicle. He had watched Hitchcock and the woman as Hitchcock bought tickets of admission, and then had adjusted his large dark glasses. After a quick look of reassurance in the rearview mirror, he’d pulled his black cap down around his head and then left the car to follow his subjects. From the sparseness of the locals in attendance, Herbert could see Lingate would not be a profitable engagement for the Pechter Circus. Hitchcock and the woman walked slowly toward a tepee that featured a fortune-teller. Nearby a man dressed as an American Indian was hawking souvenirs. Here Hitchcock and the woman separated, Hitchcock entering the tepee and the woman crossing over to the “Indian,” presumably to examine his wares. Herbert positioned himself so that he could watch both the tepee and Nancy Adair.
Inside the tepee, Hitchcock could see it was much more spacious than it looked from outside. There were a table with two chairs and a beaded curtain that partitioned the tepee in two. From behind the curtain he could hear a woman’s sultry voice humming “Falling in Love Again.”
“Hello!” cried Hitchcock.
The curtains parted melodiously and the gypsy woman entered. She was neither old, as Madeleine Lockwood had described her, nor was she a gypsy, suspected Hitchcock, but there was a marvelous look to her, seductive, tempting, her upper lip curling as she examined him with interest. Her head was covered by a bright-red bandanna; around her neck hung a variety of necklaces. Bracelets jangled when she moved her hands, and there were rings for all ten fingers. She wore a multicolored blouse and a red skirt that reached down to her ankles, and her belt appeared to be made from chain mail. She was bizarre and exotic and heavily perfumed, and Hitchcock hoped there was a voice to match.
“I am Madame Lavinia. I see the past, the present, and the future.” With hands on hips, she sauntered toward the table with a slinky movement that offered other promises for the future. The voice was perfect—husky, melodic, low-pitched. “Place your sixpence on the table and sit down.” Hitchcock did as he was told. She sat opposite him and pushed the coin to one side. “Let me see your left hand, please.” He placed his left hand on the table, palm upward. “The left hand is the dreamer. Did you know this?” She took his hand in her right hand and, with her left index finger, began tracing the lines of the palm, the touch of her fingernail sending a tingle up Hitchcock’s spine such as he hadn’t felt since his wedding night.
“I don’t have too much to do with my left hand,” said Hitchcock in a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Oh, yes, you do. You dream a great deal. Look. Here and here and here.” The fingernail hopped from line to line. “Fantasy dominates yo
ur life. You must be an artist or a writer. Yes, it’s very plain to me. You are a professional person. Place your right hand next to the left, palm upward.” Again he did as he was told. “Very sweaty.” He rubbed the hand on his trousers and then placed it back in position. She stared hard at his right palm, as though it might be a valuable piece of jewelry. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she had whipped out a jeweler’s loupe and screwed it into her eye to give the palm a more accurate assessment. “The right hand is reality, it mirrors what you really are.” She squeezed the flesh below the thumb. “Yes, you are very talented. When you have learned to channel your gifts, you will go very far in your profession.”
“And what is my profession?” asked Hitchcock smoothly.
“Have you forgotten so soon?” Her voice and her eyes mocked him.
“Of course not. But you’re the fortune-teller and I’ve paid my sixpence.”
“You expect too much for such a pittance.”
“If the fee is inadequate, you should raise your prices.”
“I should raise my sights, but that’s another story.” She was lighting a Turkish cigarette, having found cigarettes and matches in a large pocket hidden in the voluminous folds of her skirt. She went back to this right hand. “You could have a long life if you are very careful. “
“Meaning?” It was Hitchcock’s turn for mockery.
“Your weight will impair your health. Go on a diet.”
“And other than that?”
“You’re a player in a very dangerous game.”
“You haven’t seen that in my palm.”
“Oh, yes. It’s in your palm. Right here, see?” Hitchcock’s eyes didn’t leave her face.
Yesterday, in Medwin, you predicted the impending death of a friend of mine.”
“Did I?” She leaned back in her seat. “Death is inevitable, so it’s easily predictable. I am always patronized by old ladies and old men. They’re the ones who least wish to die. Most of them want to go on forever, God knows why.”
“This old lady said you sounded very definite. Perhaps you remember her. She wore a very garish red wig.”